Wildsmith gave the letter a little shake, as if trying to dislodge dirt. “He’s wrong inside, horribly wrong. There’s a disconnection. This is someone who doesn’t care and who likes to do—to hurt— It’s pulling the wings off flies, but that’s all he does or wants to do. It’s cruel and it’s clinical—and he’s entertained— Oh my God. What the fuck. What is this?” He shoved the paper back at Aaron. “What the hell have you brought me?”

Aaron took it automatically, and rose to his feet as Wildsmith sprang to his. “Calm down. And look here—”

“No, you look. If you know this man, then do something about him. You need the police, not a bloody graphologist! And do it now, because I will bet you the contents of my bank account that he has hurt people, and he will hurt people again.”

“Are you serious?”

“Yes,” Wildsmith said through his teeth. “I suppose he’s what you really came about? Well, I’ve told you your suspicions are right, congratulations, now bloody do something. Take it away. Go away. Pay me first,” he added.

Aaron fished out two ten-shilling notes, in the hope that paying up would lead to calming down. “Wait. Could you tell me more about this?”

“I do not want to—” Wildsmith stopped himself, inhaled very deeply, and went on with a thin veneer of control. “Please, just go to the police. Ask them to spare five minutes from their busy schedule of harassing the Irish and entrapping men in public conveniences, and look at this fellow. I’m sure you can make someone listen to you, you seem like the sort. If they investigate him they will find something.”

“What something?”

“Something horrible,” Wildsmith said flatly. “This man’s wrong all the way through. He’s done terrible things and he doesn’t care. If they hang him for it, he still won’t care. He needs to be stopped and he won’t stop till he’s made to, so go to the police and make—them—look.” He jabbed a dictatorial finger on each of those words. “And if you need a starting point—oh hell, I don’t know. Helplessness. Children. Animals or children. You need to go. I’ve a headache.”

He shoved Aaron’s coat at him, then his hat, and Aaron found himself outside in short order. He stood in the night air, steadying himself for a moment and then set off home with a lot to think about.

There could be no doubt of Joel Wildsmith’s skills. This last display was proof positive: he was unquestionably a fraud, and a shameless one at that. A little bit too clever, Mr. Graphologist, Aaron thought savagely.